Assorted ASoIaF Fics
by WordsofMushroom
Summary: Various unrelated fics I wrote and decided to publish. More will be added.
1. Son

"Wait," Lyanna rasped, exhausted from labor. "Let me see my child." The maid turned and sputtered, "My lady, you must rest. The prince-"

"The prince is dead, just like his father and mine. I shall have plenty of time to rest once I join them. Now, let me see my child." Silenced by the other woman's outburst, the maid walked slowly toward the bed and set the child in Lyanna's shaking arms. Gently, she bent down to kiss the infant's tiny nose, then cupped his head in her hands as if he were glass, not a dragon. "You are not Aerys or Rhaegar, me, or anyone else but yourself. Make me and your uncle proud. And, I love you." Then she kissed her first, her last, her only son once more, and reluctantly handed him back to the timid young woman, so afraid that she could some how lose her hold, that impending death would loosen an already weak grasp. "Wylla, after I… Tell Ned the boy's name is Jon."

"Ned?"

"Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell," Lyanna whispered solemnly, wishing that she could have said it was Brandon, or even Rickard Stark who ruled the North. And her brother was suddenly by her bed, fear pooling in his eyes like the blood that stained the sheets. Ice lay at his side, an afterthought, a different kind of destruction. She so desperately wanted to take her thumb and wipe away the tears that cut paths down his cheeks, to tell him that everything would be alright, that the North didn't cry, but that would never be true. Not for Lyanna, at least. "Are you hurt?" he whispered softly, knowing the answer and refusing to believe it. Wolves were defiant creatures, fighting death until it broke them.

"Beyond repair, Brother. There is nothing to be done."

"No!" He gasped, scrabbling for her hands, choking down a sob.

"No, we'll take you to Maester Luwin, or Kings Landing, somewhere! You'll be fine, only a few stitches…. Oh Lyanna…. Did you ever love him?" The fear dripped down his face, fat tears reflecting light.

"With all my heart. Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature. Rhaegar was what he was, a man, a prince, a king, a dragon. I would do it all again a thousand times, if I had to." Lyanna paused, losing at her game with death. "Brother, take care of my son, my son…. Promise me, Ned…." A young woman approached him, holding out the wriggling bundle. Ned took his nephew into his arms, gasping when he saw those oh-so familiar grey eyes staring sadly back.


	2. Fire

Only after Ghost had been gone a week, did Jon begin to worry. _A wolf has to hunt, _he thought. Nevertheless, he shot glances down along the kingsroad, and spent his long, brooding nights outside, waiting for the wolf to come sauntering home. Two weeks later, Jon was gathering fistfuls of white fur into his grasp, telling Ghost never to leave for that long, never to let him worry like that. But something was different about this return. Behind him trailed a silver shadow, a swollen belly, a pair of glimmering eyes in the snow. When he brushed his fingers against Ghost's fur, he only heard one thing. _Shaera, Shaera, Shaera. _

The pups were born in the middle of a white blizzard, a beautiful, deadly beast that lasted nearly three days. The clouds rolled in on a clear, blue winter morning, galloping across the sky like a giant destrier, and colliding with each other like waves in an autumn storm.

The birth arrived not long after the snow, bringing pain instead of cold. Ghost perched himself on the rocks by the cliff, concentrating on keeping everything that wasn't going to happen out of his mind. Things like small cold bodies, and the light leaving his love's eyes. And when then end finally did come, he was overjoyed to see four tiny bundles cuddled close Shaera's warm stomach. Four small gifts, four blessings, four happinesses. Consumed with exhausted wonder, each wolf drifted into a deep, weightless slumber.

Ice crunched beneath his paws, but the cold had no effect. Cold cannot not reach the heart, and so many more have joined his brothers and sisters in the in the fire. It is a father's job to keep the ice and snow at bay, to calm the tiny cries of fear which are swallowed when the wind roars it's mournful song. If this is love, than it is a strange thing to wish for. But Ghost will let it swell in his chest, let it fill his lungs, and let his fur stand on end when he hears the answering howl, because it is so hard not to, not to let the fire grow.


	3. Golden

The Queen was slowly wasting away, crumbling like the bricks of Meereen. Maesters and healers of every kind had visited her, and still they found nothing. "She is healthy, and dying." Council meetings and court quickly became a test of her strength and composure, and days ending with Daenerys sweating and shivering in bed while Missandei told her of Naath and Old Valyria.

Even the dragons understood, and became skeletons of their former selves. Viserion and Rhaegal lost the will to eat, and got so weak they could hardly fly. Atop of the Great Pyramid of Meereen, Drogon coiled himself around the Targaryen banner draped Harpy, and roasted anyone who tried to get near him. The heat and weight of his body began to melt and collapse the statue, until he was a just a smoking shadow sulking in a puddle of gold.

The day was mild, and the year was steadily sliding into winter. Daario wrapped Dany in her white lion pelt and gathered her into his arms from where she sat on the bed. "Where are are we going, love?" She asked, leaning her head against his chest. "To see your children. " He said it with a sad smile, and carried her down through belly of the pyramid, and out into the pale sunlight. A small tent had been pitched in the city by a fountain, and furnished with a couch and cushions. As they walked, people touched her hair and hands and cried out, "Mhysa, Mhysa!" When Daario finally reached the tent, a group of 20 or so children were gathered behind them, with others even farther back. The youngest sat nearest to Dany, two or three sitting on each of the largest cushions. One little girl walked up to the couch, sat down, and took the Queen's hand in her own. It was Daeria, Missandei and Greyworm's adopted little girl of seven years.

"My dear, why are you not with your nurse, or tutor? The city is no place for a young girl."

"They are away, in Pentos, and Tyrosh. Mama sent me to you."

Dany smiled at that, and bid the child to tell her how she managed to escape all three women, and the Unsullied posted outside the Pyramid gates without being noticed. Daeria grined. According to the real version, she dressed as a kitchen servant, told the guards she was leaving to buy bread, and followed Daario. He had left by now, but ordered two Unsullied to stay by the tent. It made for quite the story, but reminded Dany to have her guards learn to recognize the child.

Daenerys sat with the children throughout the day, hearing their stories and telling her own in return. When night fell and the tent emptied, one of the guards helped her back to the small couch. Sleep came easily and uninterrupted by fevered dreams.

A quietly murmured conversation pulled Dany awake, and she opened her eyes to see Daario duck through the tent flap. "How long have I been sleeping?"

"It's nearly dawn." Moving aside so he could sit, she looked him over. Of course, his armor was dirty and there were bags under his eyes. "Were you awake all night?" Daario yawned.

"Go find someplace to sleep. I can't have my champion falling asleep next to the throne." Ignoring her command, he took Dany's hand in his own. "And how do you fare, my queen?"

"Better than yesterday." She says it with a smile, holding on to the thought of being able to ride her dragons once again.

Gently, Daario slipped his hands under her shoulder and knees, and she laced her fingers behind his neck. With the two Unsullied in tow, they made their way back to the massive, gold crowned Great pyramid.

When Dany entered her rooms, Missandei and Qezza already have a pale blue tokar, earrings and sandals waiting. To their concerned surprise, she bathes and dresses herself. The stairs outside of her suite prove to be challenging, but she attempts them anyways. "Are you sure that is wise, my lady?" Missandei questions.

"I cannot live like this forever." Dany said, looking back at her handmaidens. "A fragile queen is not much of a queen at all."

Holding court is taxing, but not so much as it was a week ago. Her voice was stronger, and the bouts of coughing are fewer and farther in between.

That evening, as the sun sets, Dany sat in her pool and tries to imagine the house with the red door in Braavos. The memories are strange and dreamlike, as though she is looking through a glass of water or a twisted mirror. How time has changed her, from a frightened child to a queen. _What would I think of myself, all those years ago?_ A deafening roar broke Dany from her reverie, and pushed her gaze upwards. Drogon was perched on the side of the pyramid, wings outstretched. Droplets of molten gold hang off his scales like drops of morning dew. When he takes flight, the tiny glowing specks are flung in the air, where they seem to stay suspended, and for a single second, they are the same color as the the sky behind the setting sun.


End file.
